Voices of Alcoholism: The Healing Companion: Stories for Courage, Comfort and Strength

by The Healing Project, Joseph A. Califano Jr., Charles Beem

Overview

In this collection of inspirational stories from all walks of life, the silence shrouding the disease of alcoholism is broken. Filled with unforgettable and informative true accounts by the victims of alcoholism, their families, and friends, each tale is written with remarkable candor about how this disease affects everyone—and not just the alcoholic—at every level of society, from the first drink through the challenges of achieving a lasting recovery. With a comprehensive resources section for those seeking current information on treatment and recovery, this is a heartfelt, emotional, and informative volume that affirms the strength of the human spirit.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781934184042
Publisher:	LaChance Publishing LLC
Publication date:	04/01/2008
Series:	Voices Of series Series
Edition description:	New Edition
Pages:	268
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.69(d)

About the Author

The Healing Project is a not-for-profit organization founded in 2005, dedicated to creating a community of support for those challenged with chronic and life-threatening illnesses. Their previous books are Voices of Alzheimer's, Voices of Breast Cancer, and Voices of Lung Cancer. Joseph A. Califano Jr. is the chairman and president of the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University and the former Secretary of the U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. He is the author of High Society. He lives in New York City. Charles Beem is the executive director of Adult Services of Caron, a nationally recognized not-for-profit chemical dependency treatment organization. He lives in Wernersville, Pennsylvania.

Read an Excerpt

Voices of alcoholism

The Healing Companion: Stories for Courage, Comfort and Strength

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By Richard Day Gore

LaChance Publishing LLC

Copyright © 2008 LaChance Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-934184-04-2

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CHAPTER 1

Part I

My grandfather handed a drink to my sister for a sip ...

I recall a feeling of delight that seemed to speak to me ...

my very first taste of alcohol ...

As If It Happened Yesterday

T. Lloyd Reilly

* * *

Many tell me they think it is impossible to remember something that long ago; I had to have been too young. I had not even started to talk. How could I possibly remember the first time I got drunk?

Well, I do. My family and I were at my grandfather's house in New Jersey. It was spring or summer. My sister and I were sitting on the picnic table in the backyard. My grandfather handed a beer to my sister for a "sip." At the time, for the northeastern Irish- Catholic, it seemed that drinking was not as dangerous as it is known to be today. A man came home from work and drank a beer to wash down the effects of the day: dust from the road, sweat from his labor, frustration at not making enough money. With an absent father, we children yearned for the company of the men in our family; my grandfather and my favorite uncle were the male influences in our young lives. They drank, and we wanted to be just like them, the men that held us, hugged us, and told us we were beautiful and worthy.

As the afternoon went on, we asked for more "sips" of the beer in Poppy's hand. My sister, who held me in her arms, put me down whenever she was delivered the dark amber bottle. I reached for the bottle and we struggled for a minute. Poppy scolded my sister and told her to give it to me. I tilted the bottle to my lips and drank deeply (I never have understood the concept of a "sip" — how someone could just take a little when he could have a lot). The taste of this infusion of malt and hops captured me, held me in its grip, and has never left me. I recall a feeling of delight that seemed to speak to me, telling me that nothing mattered or would ever matter, as long as I kept drinking; I remember Poppy scolding me for emptying the bottle. All I wanted at the time was to inhabit the place that the beer took me. All there was at that moment, and for the next forty years, was euphoria. Ecstasy in a bottle, which could be found in every refrigerator of every house in which I ever lived.

Strange as it may sound, I thought of that day every time I popped a tab, mixed a drink, or tipped a bottle to my lips. I never understood why the memory of that day was held with so much intensity within me. A few years ago, about the time of the tenth anniversary of the miracle of my recovery, I discovered the answer. At a family birthday and barbecue, we sat around the table after eating, telling stories of the family. This evolved into home movie viewing and browsing the family photo albums. In one album I came upon a picture of that very day. I looked at my sister, and felt remorse for the pain of her tears. I looked at my dear grandfather smiling, and I stared at myself holding the bottle to my lips. The year the picture was taken was written underneath. The date astonished me: 1954. I thought of all those times I brought that bottle to my mouth. I thought of all the times I woke to the overwhelming need to get to that next "sip" in spite of the illness it caused. I thought of a young child who just wanted to feel better, and did not know why. And I thought of my birthday: June 21, 1953.

The Promise of Hope

Clay A. Adams

* * *

The van skidded to a stop, digging into the mud on the rain-soaked roadside. Despite the jolt from the vehicle's brakes, I remained asleep. With a roar the van door slid open, rupturing my slumber. Gathering my senses and my gear, I made my way past the front seats and reluctantly stepped onto Interstate 45 southbound in Houston, Texas.

A frozen rain battered my face. With a makeshift spear in one hand and a trash bag in the other, I took the first step of the four-mile trek ahead of me. I harpooned an empty beer can that floated in a nearby puddle. How fitting, I thought to myself. But I was coming to realize that walking four miles down the interstate in the freezing rain to clean up litter was the best place for me to be at six o'clock on a Friday morning.

The word "average" describes my adolescence well. You certainly wouldn't expect to find me in any so-called "at-risk" group. But it didn't matter who I was — my struggles erupted out of who I feared I wasn't. I had three older brothers. Two were more on the wild side. It was they who invited me to experience my very first taste of alcohol. As their younger brother I had forever endured their teasing, rejection, ridicule and abuse. This could break that cycle; I would be one of them! Once I had resigned myself to thinking that way, the liquor didn't sting so much. You acquire the taste after three or four and it's downhill from there.

The effect of diving into that bottle was profound. Fear and worry disappeared, cares went far away, ordinary events became exciting, boring situations turned hilarious. Not only would alcohol's magical properties keep me coming back for more, they overpowered even the strongest sense of guilt.

Before long, I had established a comfortable routine that would invariably place me at my brothers' apartment. Because I still lived at home with my parents, it was often necessary to lie and manipulate my way around various house rules that might prevent me from being available to drink. First I was drinking once or twice every couple of weeks. By that summer, I was drinking and partying with my brothers almost every day.

Soon, I was living life to the fullest and loving every minute of it. Just when I thought I had found nirvana, my brothers introduced me to yet another new mind-altering substance. After some deliberation, they placed in my hand a small marble pipe with a freshly packed bowl of marijuana. After a very short period of reluctance and uneasiness, I decided to try it. The drug obliterated my inhibitions. Apathy took hold. I delved deeper and deeper into the realm of this newfound high.

I spent the rest of my summer vacation indulging in my vices. My final two years in high school marked a rapid and steady decline. My grades fell sharply and my teachers grew concerned about my well being. I ended up in trouble at school and, more frequently, with my parents. I cared less and less for outside activities that might reduce my precious partying time. Alcohol became more important than my studies, my family and even most of my friends.

The following summer, I fully crossed the bridge from using alcohol to abusing it. I was accepted into a good university, paid for by my parents. For me, college wasn't just an opportunity to better myself and bolster my future business ventures. It was my first taste of true freedom. I could drink to my heart's content.

I also discovered several new drugs while in college. My lifestyle was shared by a host of fellow students, many of whom would later form my new circle of friends. We ventured off to the keg parties on the weekends, spent weeknights out at discreet locations smoking pot and drinking malt liquor.

I decided drinking was much more personally rewarding than attending class; my grade point average dropped to an abysmal low. When I ran out of money, I sold my books to buy more booze. Drugs weren't cheap either, so I needed a financial solution to support that habit as well. I discovered that my student loan was not entirely used up by tuition that year. I blew almost all of it on liquor and beer, making sure to set aside a little for the coming weeks. Once that money was gone, I used my credit card to buy books, turning right around and selling them for cash. Soon I was selling pot on campus, which drew the attention of law enforcement and a drug task force. A few months later the task force had me in custody for minor offenses and I spent a week in jail.

My final semester was miserable. I lived off campus in an apartment with a drinking buddy. When we went to bed, we would set up the bottle and shot glasses for the next morning so we could get an early start drinking before class. Not surprisingly, I failed all my classes, again. All of my time, money and resources had gone to support my alcoholism. I violated the terms of my academic probation for a third time, spent more time in jail and remained under police surveillance.

Consequence had caught up with me. I returned home filled with shame and self-pity. Not long afterwards, I reunited with my old drinking friends and spent a good deal of time out partying. One day, my parents confronted me about my so-called problem. I denied it. Nevertheless, my mother kicked me out of the house and vowed I could only return on the condition that I go into rehab. Faced with the choice between the street and a treatment center, I chose the street.

An old friend took pity on me and let me stay in his apartment. But eventually he got fed up with my ways and he left for Austin. At the end of that month I was evicted. I spent two nights utterly homeless. But I had plenty of liquor, a six pack of beer and a pinch of marijuana. So I drove with my last remaining friend to a quiet spot along the banks of a bayou. I had hit many bottoms on the way down, but this time I had truly arrived. There I sat, angry, defeated, groggy, dazed, saturated with toxins and far from sane. I told my friend I was going home. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I popped open a beer and clasped one more joint between my lips. I glanced solemnly at my friend, swearing to a conviction I'd uttered so many times in vain. "This is my last joint, and my last beer ... ever."

When our session ended, I threw the bottle in the woods and flicked the joint into the creek below. Then I broke down in tears. A short while later, I took the longest walk of my life: up the pathway to my parent's home. I lifted a trembling fist to the door and knocked softly, almost wishing no one would answer. Moments later, I was reunited with my family after a long tour of unspeakable suffering. My mother steadfastly upheld her vow. She allowed me to spend that night in the house with the assurance that I would be taken to a treatment center first thing in the morning. Broken, beaten and out of options, I accepted.

The next morning my father woke me up at 8 o'clock and rushed me to dress and pack some clothing. By 8:30 we were heading for the Texas House, a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center in northwest Houston. It seemed like something that I could handle, until we arrived. Life was hard enough with a head full of booze. Coping with life in sobriety was unimaginable to me. Nevertheless, I somehow composed myself and accompanied my father into the Clinical Supervisor's office. He questioned me about my lifestyle and behavior. Once he'd concluded his interview, I was told I would be accepted if I chose to reside there and follow the rules. The counselor asked me if I had any questions that might help me decide. I only had one: "What should I expect to get out of living here in treatment?" Without hesitation, the counselor spoke firmly and compassionately with a single sentence I will never forget.

"You will comprehend the word serenity and you will know peace."

Picking up trash on the side of the road would become my daily occupation for eight months. This was my payment for residence at Texas House and a testament to my willingness to strive toward sobriety no matter what the condition. For the first time, I had done something different. I had made a sacrifice. I paid a short-term price for a long-term reward. I removed chemicals from my life and replaced them with a God of my understanding.

Today, I have clarity. I have peace and serenity. I acquired many tangible blessings as well — things like a good job, my own place to live, my own vehicle, a beautiful wife and much, much more. I could never list every gift I've been given as a result of sobriety and God's presence in my life. But I will list one more. That gift is the experience itself. It was promised to me, when I committed to recovery, that there was hope for me. It was promised to me that my experience would some day benefit others. Because you see, it has afforded me a unique opportunity to offer this testimony. So confident am I that a better life awaits us all that I extend to you the same promise of hope. Just remember: Pain may very well be necessary. Suffering is optional.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Voices of alcoholism by Richard Day Gore. Copyright © 2008 LaChance Publishing LLC. Excerpted by permission of LaChance Publishing LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Foreword Charles Beem,
Foreword: High Society Joseph A. Califano, Jr,
Introduction: The Healing Project Debra LaChance, Founder,
Acknowledgments,
Part I: FIRST TASTE,
As If It Happened Yesterday T. Lloyd Reilly,
The Promise of Hope Clay A. Adams,
Understanding Alcoholism Dennis C. Daley, Ph.D. and Antoine Douaihy, M.D,
Generations Richard Day Gore,
Sober, Not Dry Diane Mierzwick,
Part II: POWERLESS,
Daddy Hyde Donna Veneto,
King Alcohol and His Loyal Subject Tracy Alverson,
A Parent's Trial Anne Pascale,
A Sister's Regret Gloria Raskin,
Two Mothers Lisa Dordal,
The Healing Power of Truth Karen W. Waggoner,
Part III: FAMILY,
May Day Martha Deborah Hall,
He's Not an Alcoholic Mridu Khullar,
The Whites of His Eyes Leslie Smith Townsend,
Family Tree Katrina Cleveland,
I Really Am Special Julie Anne Hunter,
Mothers Can't Be Drunks, Can They? Valerie Scully,
The Day He Left Allison S. Jones,
Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm Angela Lovell,
Part IV: I NEED HELP,
The Path Was Rocky (But Worth It) Steven Michael Sarber,
Amazing Grace Dagan Elizabeth Manahl,
Losing Control Jessica Saldivar,
To Drink or Not To Drink Lisa Schoonover,
Buzz Miriam Lee,
My Story Yvette Fitzjarrald,
My Demon Mary C. White,
Part V: LEARNING TO LIVE,
The Wake Up Call Sheri Ables,
No Longer in Charge Christine Valentine,
A Mother's Journal Susan Norton,
Reason to Believe Ginger B. Collins,
Breaking Point Tiffany Williams,
The Journey to Hope Uma Girish,
Part VI: MIRACLE,
Do You Know the Way to A.A.? Diane Saarinen,
My Dark Nights of the Soul Ruth Fishel,
A Simple Cup of Coffee Lucy Brummett,
Reprieve from Insanity Peter Wright,
Desperation Kim Mallin,
Do As I Say, Not As I Do Ed Lamp, Ph.D,
Blessed by Truth Hannah Smith,
Till Death Do We Part Katrina Hunt,
Better than Better Leslie C. Lewis,
Drunk Sara Ekks,
A Look to the Future of Alcoholism Treatment Ron L. Alterman, M.D,
Afterword: Caregiver, Heal Thyself James Huysman, Psy.D,
Resources,